


something to miss

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Moon Knight (Comics)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Clint Barton/Marc Spector, M/M, Marc Spector Needs A Hug, Marc Spector Needs More Content, Mid-Moon Knight (2016), POV Marc Spector, Soft & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24573274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Marc wakes up and something’s missing.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Marc Spector
Comments: 29
Kudos: 65





	something to miss

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so first off: I am INSULTED by the fact this is the first fic in this relationship tag. 
> 
> Second of all, I'm still learning my Moon Knight history and you'll have to forgive me while I get a handle on writing the boy. This is set directly in the middle of the first few issues in the Lemire run, mostly because I saw a Hawkeye easter egg and got overly excited.

Marc wakes up and something’s missing.

“Pancakes?”

“Sure,” he answers Gena distractedly.

There’s blood and dirt mixed dark red under his blunt nails and scrapes on his palms where his sleeves don’t reach. His sleeves are spotless; white, always white. It feels like all he ever sees is white nowadays, spilling from his brain and out into the world. There’s white everywhere and something’s missing.

“There you go,” she says, passing over a plate heaped high with food.

Marc slides it closer with one hand. There’s sauce drizzled over everything and his face aches from someone driving their fist into it over and over. He carefully cuts a crescent-shaped slice out of the pancakes. When he blinks there’s stars behind his eyelids and a long, elegant beak, and something’s missing.

“Gena,” he says. “There’s a… was I with someone? Blond hair?”

Gena glances up at him. “Marlene? She’s sitting over there, honey.”

Oh. Marlene, of course. That makes sense. His brain’s still coming back from the electric shocks they’d dealt him - not to mention the drugs. Marlene doesn’t look up at him as he stares, just turns a page of the magazine she’s gazing at. Marc puts a sliver of pancake in his mouth and tastes blood. His teeth feel coated in it, coppery and sharp and something’s missing.

He looks down at his hands again. The scars are normal. The blood’s normal - well, maybe not normal for other people but certainly par for the course with his life. His gloves aren’t covering the skin, folded into his pocket for the time being.

There’s also a bright purple band-aid curled around his index finger, and that one is decidedly _not_ normal.

Hmm. Purple.

“Was there someone else?” he finds himself asking.

“Not around here,” Gena replies. “I think I should stay here, at the diner.”

The sand’s rising outside, the howling of the wind so loud that he feels like someone’s screaming at him. Often people _are_ screaming at him, so it doesn’t make that big of a difference. His fork scrapes against an empty plate and he looks down at it, at the syrup smeared on the white ceramic. He needs to take a piss and something’s missing.

 _What do you think you are doing here_ , Khonshu asks.

Marc can see him out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the grimy toilet like it’s a throne. He chooses to ignore the question in favour of getting his business done at the urinal. Khonshu is unimpressed and Marc stares at the graffiti scrawled on the wall until it blurs, marker-drawn dicks and hastily scribbled phone numbers.

 _The end is here_ , Khonshu says.

There’s one piece of graffiti that catches Marc’s eye at that moment. The words aren’t particularly stand-out or interesting but it’s been written in a strikingly familiar looping script, and even as Khonshu keeps speaking the voice filters out to nothing.

Marc touches the graffiti with his bloody fingernails and the band-aid is the exact same colour as the text is.

“I remember now,” he says, more to himself than to the god making disparaging comments in the stall behind him.

Khonshu yells at him but Marc’s already running because the world is falling apart around him but he _knows what’s missing_.

 _You alone must be a light against the infinite dark,_ Khonshu had told him, except there’s another kind of light and it’s the one filtering through the broken blinds in Clint Barton’s apartment, and it follows him across the messy living room and right up into the bedroom.

He stands at the top of the stairs for a moment, just takes it in. There’s a uniform thrown in the corner and Marc raises his hand, matches his purple band-aid with the chevron painted on a battered black vest.

Clint’s sprawled out across the bed, sweatpants slipping down low on his hips. It’s revealing miles of tanned skin and layered scars, and Marc can see faded black ink curled over his ankle. His lips are parted gently and he looks _soft_ like this, gentle somehow. Like he should be something other than a trained fighter. He doesn’t look like someone who’d be interested in this whole mess and yet…

Marc feels like he’s regained something here, something important.

“I know I’m stunning to look at, but it’s more fun if you stop lurking and come here,” Clint says without opening his eyes.

 _You are mine,_ Khonshu says.

Marc kicks off his suit and slides under the covers when Clint lifts them obligingly. His head hurts and his eyes feel like they’ve got sand permanently stuck in them and there’s still blood under his fingernails, but it all feels insignificant here.

Especially when Clint shifts closer, kisses him gentle and sweet like they’re just normal people living normal lives.

His lips aren’t soft - they’re comforting, though, and Marc can detect the faintest hint of a smile there as he falls into kissing back.

“How you feel about morning sex, Spector?” Clint asks, hooks a leg over his thighs and watches him.

“Can we just… can we just stay like this, for a minute?”

It’s not that he’s adverse to it but more that there’s a uniquely special quality to just lying here with Clint curled around him. He's warmer than Marc expects, like the sunshine lives on the inside of his skin. Like Clint's the sun, which... would make sense if Marc is the moon, wouldn't it? Either way Marc’s hungry for it and Clint must be hungry for something he sees in him as well, because he tugs Marc closer, tangles them closer.

 _Ridiculous,_ Khonshu says. _Hawkeye is nothing in comparison to me._

“Shut up,” Marc mumbles.

Clint doesn’t even react to his words. Probably something to do with the fact his hearing aids have been sitting on the bedside table this whole time, and he can't see Marc's lips at this angle.

The sandstorm’s still raging outside and Marc knows this isn’t forever, but he’s happy to take what he can get for now. Marc Spector is lying here with Clint Barton wrapped around him and they're _cuddling_ but nothing is missing, nothing that he could find it in himself to miss.


End file.
